By Sierra K. Briscoe
As Halloween draws near in Gilroy, the moon grows larger, the
night grows darker and the air develops a bite. The Longs Drugs
store starts to carry glow-in-the-dark nail polish, houses down
Third Street start hanging false cobwebs and pumpkin patches
advertise their large, orange crop. All of these happenings mark
the coming of ghouls, ghosts and kids dressed as Tinky Winky from
Teletubbies.
By Sierra K. Briscoe
As Halloween draws near in Gilroy, the moon grows larger, the night grows darker and the air develops a bite. The Longs Drugs store starts to carry glow-in-the-dark nail polish, houses down Third Street start hanging false cobwebs and pumpkin patches advertise their large, orange crop. All of these happenings mark the coming of ghouls, ghosts and kids dressed as Tinky Winky from Teletubbies.
Down here on the University campus in the always-hot, ever-busy southern California however, the coming of Halloween is often unnoticed. We can’t see the moon grow larger because of the menacing presence of gray matter in the sky that we kindly refer to as smog. The night is never dark because fluorescent stadium lights are located nearby and the glow of the city never dims. The air never develops a bite, unless you consider 74 degrees chilly. We don’t have Longs to carry glow-in-the-dark nail polish, and there is certainly no room for pumpkin patches.
On my college campus, students are locking themselves in the library and moving into Starbucks to prepare for midterms, and even if the smog were to miraculously clear displaying the waxing moon, no one would notice. Our chins are settled onto page 1,746 of “Molecular Biology” and our hands are tightly wrapped around the green and white paper cups that contain our only sustenance. It is only on the day of the 31st that someone will announce an 80’s-themed Halloween party at Sigma Chi. This gives the average student 34 minutes to find that perfect “breakfast club”-worthy ensemble to celebrate the holiday that gives us the privilege to regress to the days of our neon-colored childhoods.
With little time to prepare, we have to use our resources and be thrifty. We gather some spandex from a friend who plays volleyball and an acid-washed skirt from a trendy dorm mate who is aware that acid wash is very vogue and definitely back in. We walk to the nearest second-hand store and rummage for the $.99 tubular 80’s shirt, but it’s only when we find that Urban Outfitters is having a sale on hot pink pumps that the costume is perfected.
This leaves 0.4 minutes to get dressed and scooter over to the decked-out dorm. Upon arriving we are bombarded with David Bowie and Cindy Lauper wannabes. Billy Idol is mixing tapes in the background and Tang is flowing freely. Candy is minimal due to expense – there is no room in the college students’ budget for the large Halloween sized candy bags filled with assorted mini chocolate bars. An overweight Richard Simmons approaches with some beef jerky, and I have to politely decline.
Before we know it, we’ve partied into November, and Halloween is over just like that. No ghosts, no ghouls, no kids knocking on your door dressed like your favorite Teletubby. College students saunter back to small dormitories where the air conditioning is blowing hot air, but it’s still cooler than the air from outside. We don’t bother to remove the thick black eyeliner or the spandex, we never make the climb onto our lofted bunks. We fall sleep on the floor with “Nice Day for a White Wedding” lulling us to sleep.
The alarm radio comes on way too soon, and we swear that “Celebrate” by Kool and the Gang was just playing on KROQ. We throw on flip-flops and lazily scooter or bike across campus, “Molecular Biology” books in tow. And it’s just another day as a college student. No pillowcases filled with chocolate delights, no pumpkins to throw out, no faux cobwebs to tear down, and just as quickly as Halloween came, it was gone.
Sierra Briscoe is a journalism major at Biola University and a Gilroy resident during the summer. She writes an occasional column for the Teen Page.
